The Deep End of the Pool
A quiet ache. A high dive. A deeper kind of courage.
Welcome. I’ve just begun sharing here — stories, reflections, and soul whispers from the inner terrain of midlife and beyond. If you’ve found your way here, I hope this offering meets you where you are. It’s a piece about fear, memory, and the deep healing that sometimes begins with silence.
When I was a teen — not quite old enough to hold a summer job but long past summer camp — my sister, who had her driver’s license and a part-time job, would drive us to a nearby lake or swimming pool. We’d spend the day there, gratefully escaping the endless chores and tedium of our home life. I loved those days of soaking ourselves in a mixture of baby oil and iodine and the rays of the sun.
My sister was a sun worshipper, determined to get as brown as her fair skin would allow. I didn’t care much about my tan — I was drawn to the water. I loved diving into that beautiful blue pool, swimming from one end to the other. I loved the feel of the cool water rushing past with each stroke. I practiced the crawl and the breaststroke, which I was particularly good at.
The pool had an array of diving boards. Like Goldilocks, I tried each one. The lowest was too low for a proper jackknife. The mid-level one was just right. But then I found myself drawn to the high dive — way, way up there. To be honest, it terrified me. I was absolutely convinced that hurling myself from that height would end in pain.
But somehow, I climbed the long metal stairs to the top. Looking down into the blue water and the shadowy bottom of the pool, everything in me wanted to turn back. But with people lined up behind me, retreat wasn’t an option. So off I went.
When I hit the water — fingertips, then arms and head — the force jarred me. It almost hurt. But before I knew it, I was deep in the dark bottom of the pool, needing to swim up before I ran out of breath. The experience was at once terrifying and exhilarating. But it changed me. It gave me courage, a sense of accomplishment, and a willingness to try again — this time with more awareness and less fear.
Getting to know ourselves — our true and real selves — is much like that. Now, as I search beneath the surface and peer into the darkness that lies beyond conscious awareness, I feel both fear and curiosity.
My husband and I have been exploring some of the emotional patterns that have broken down our connection over the years. In these conversations, we often refer to what’s conscious, subconscious, and unconscious. Romantic, I know. But at this stage of life, the things that have fascinated me for years occasionally fascinate him too. Having an incurable disease has a way of waking one up to life’s deeper truths.
The other day, as we drove to yet another doctor’s appointment, I was behind the wheel — as I always am now. We had a small kerfuffle over directions. He told me to go one way; I hesitated and questioned him, which he hates. His tone carried something sharp that triggered me. I sniped back and then shut down. This is a pattern.
Like most couples, we carry our childhood wounds into our relationship. Neither of us was parented well, and we are now learning to parent ourselves — without parenting each other. Not an easy landmine to navigate.
After a stretch of silence, I opened the conversation again. I tried to untangle what in my reaction was conscious and what was unconscious. I realized that when I hear a judgmental or sharp tone, I feel confused, hurt, and angry — and my instinct is to shut down and hold it all in. In my family, especially for women, expressing anger or deep feelings wasn’t allowed. During those moments of silence, I let my unconscious rise to the surface. I was able to tell him how I truly felt. Later, he did the same.
Our deepest wounds can be our greatest teachers — but we have to be willing to jump off the high dive if we want to go deep. And especially when we carry unhealed wounds, the prospect can be terrifying. But the risk is worth it. I’ve never regretted diving into the abyss of my own experience. Each time, I find healing. And freedom.
Most of us carry an ache deep in our hearts — a nameless place that lives somewhere in our inner darkness.
A quiet ache. A faint hope. A terrifying unknown.
A place we dare not go.
Beneath the demands that yank us through our days, we often feel grateful for the distractions — even relief when the phone rings and pulls us back into the light.
But somewhere in the subconscious, in the unconscious, is where our truth resides.
It is worth the effort to climb the stairs and dive in.
If this reflection resonated with you, you might enjoy my book, The Wisdom Within — a companion for the journey from transition to transformation. It's filled with soulful essays, quotes, and quiet invitations to return to yourself.
I too, have a hard time showing anger. Being sensitive, my first reaction is to cry. But I suppose that is a release too, because for many many years I held that in not wanting others to say once again that I’m too sensitive. Such wonderful insight from this sharing, thank you.
And your request granted - I left a review on Amazon. I really love your The Wisdom Within book. xo